


The five senses

by annie_rose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, F/M, Fluff, itty bitty bit of smut, sandors pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3248069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie_rose/pseuds/annie_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically just Sansa and Sandor tryna sort their shit. This was gonna be a scene in "wicked game" but I decided against it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The five senses

He leaned against the door, his sweaty palms flat against the cold wood. _Cool me down._ He whispered his plea to the hard surface. His eyes close and the four other senses awaken.

To hear "You can't push anymore, when the doors already closed."

He turns around looks at her as if she's an idiot. As if she's talking senseless, riddled bull shit. She's not. He knows she's not. She's right. Not about the fucking door. About this thing between them. It expands and deflates, leaving them too close for comfort, too far for relief. He wonders if they're the same thing in one - Comfort and relief. He doesn't know. He doesn't care. All he does know, is that once they're their there's nowhere else to turn. It's too much. Too constricting. Like claustrophobia wrapped in a snake. And that's when he tries to push his way out of it. This death grip she has him in. Holds him til he's out of breath, til he's reduced to this weak, crying mess. Made to face all his fears. Asking questions he doesn't want to think about let alone answer out loud. And then he snaps. The hound in him rears its ugly head once more, and although his bark is all there is- never a bite, never with her- she flinches all the same.

She's still looking at him, awaiting his reply. He sighs and drops his chin to his chest, and she tilts her head walks towards him until he's in her arms. She's whispering sweet words in his gnarled ear, telling him things like "it's okay," and "I've got you". Once again it's too much. He tries to push the words away but they don't move. He's angry. His temper rises until it fills the room. He pushes them with all the strength he has left and finally she moves, just enough for him to run away to safer ground. Her resolve cracks a little with her voice as he throws insults at her, left right and centre things that he knows hurts, things he knows shouldn't be said. She's crying now, tears stain her cheeks, she doesn't shout back, just cries silently. Waits until he's done, and all that's left is silence. He throws hearing away with sight.

The room smells of the salt of her tears.

That's all he can think of. And he's sure if anyone else entered the room they'd say it smelt of the same old mildew that seems to cling to every one of the inns here in the Riverlands. But salt is all he can smell. She's in the corner, sniffles every now again, wipes her eyes, and if it weren't for these movements he'd think she'd turned to stone. One of those beautiful and tragic works of art displayed in every capital. The epitome of grace.

There's a knock signalling their meals are waiting at the door. He can almost smile in relief. Something to replace his thoughts of her. His senses can become unclouded and focus on something that isn't her, for at least five minutes. They take their seats facing one another but both looking away. Across the table is still too close. He moves to the floor instead. Steam is rising from the thick broth they've been served. Carrots, potatoes, venison, with the occasional bean floating around. Better than most, he says to himself remembering some of the horrific food they've endured. He shakes his head. He doesn't want anything to do with the word they or us or we or anything of the like. Just him. That's all there is and all there'll ever be. He leans down and soaks his face in the steam still rising from his food. He inhales deeply, and thinks he might choke, and if he doesn't, thinks he'll just off himself, because still, the only thing he can smell is salt.

She's close enough to touch.

It's getting late. They sleep in the same bed, cause that's the only one there is. Her breathing hitches every now and again. She's still crying so he knows she's not asleep. The embers of the dying fire in the far corner, bathes the room in a dark red glow. The colour reminds him of the Strangers knowing smile. Not that he's been on the receiving end of this look, but sometimes he thinks he's seen it in the reflection of a dying mans eyes. It sends a shiver down his spine. The blankets twist and pull, there's a loud creak, and the mattress dips then bounces back as she leaves the bed.

"Where are you going?" He hates the way his voice sounds. Tired. Not the kind of tired you can fix with sleep.

She picks up on it.

"To get some rest, I think we're both in dire need of it." She whispers, probably because that's all she can do. He thinks on this. All. That's what she's given him, and now he's bled her dry.

She puts on her cloak. She picks up her coin purse. Her hand is on the latch. And he's got her arm in a tight grip. Too tight. Too tight it's almost a bite.

She turns around slowly, looks down at his hand then meets his eyes again, with this strange calm fury she's always hiding behind her eyes. She raises her eyebrows, he tightens his grip.

It stings. He could trace around her hand print on his cheek just by feeling, though he knows there's a pink hand print staining his good cheek now. Apparently this isn't enough, seconds later there's a second hit this time it's a surprisingly strong punch. He lets go of her arm and she stumbles back away from him.

The taste is blood from a tiny cut on the inside of his lip.

"What is your problem?" She screams. He's broken her resolve. It's what he wanted but he's scared now it's here. It had to be done. Had to push her to the absolute limit to know that it wasn't just gratitude or pity. That she actually cared. There's a special kind of hate reserved only for lovers and he looks for it in her eyes as she tries in vain to calm herself.

"Huh? I try and I try and all you ever do is shut me out. And now, when I go to leave, you trap me here with you. Keep me at arms length and make me wallow in your misery. I have enough of my own Sandor." Her finger stabs at his chest. He finds what he's looking for. But he doesn't know how to fix this. He doesn't do 'sorry'. A word is too easy, but actions can be misinterpreted and he doesn't know which one to choose. He bites into his lip. Hard. So he can taste the copper again. Punishes himself for not knowing the answer.She sees what he's doing and scolds him. "Stop that." And now she shakes her head, runs her fingers through her hair.

He falls down to his knees and rests his hands on her hips, his forehead on her stomach. Everything's cold to touch. It's the North in her. She can turn herself to ice when she's angry, and he can't escape the fire. _Cool me down. Please please._ He didn't realise he'd said the words aloud until he felt her breath hitch. He looks up to her and he feels like a child again. A stupid, naive child. Now salt mixes with blood and its a taste he decidedly hates. She strokes his face and takes his hand.

Soon her lips replace that taste with something addictive and heady, something hot and cold, something her and him.

His hands skim her body and hers do the same. His hands move only to caress, while her touch scratches and grabs and bites.

Their bodies slide against each other. The room is thick with the smell of blood, sweat and tears and sex.

He loves to hear her sing his praises. She moans and calls out his name. And he likes the way that when she says it each time, it sounds closer and closer to forgotten. Until she can only manage breathing the letter 's'.

He looks down. Her hair is a mess. Her cheeks are flushed the same shade of pink his good side is, from the slap she'd given him. She looks into his eyes just before she comes. He swears he sees the Stranger smiling back. He loses eye contact, she blinks and the image is gone replaced by a look of lust. A look balancing... Balancing... Balancing... And finally falling into wave upon wave of climax. She screams his name, even though seconds earlier she couldn't even say it. He loses himself in the feel of her tight cunt as it convulses around him. He thrusts into her fast and hard until he's chasing the edge of that cliff, he's close, she's moaning again, he can feel her muscles starting to tighten around his cock, he looks back to her, he leans down and kisses her with eyes open as he reaches the cliff face. The fall is so far, but in her arms he's saved.

"Sansa"

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it :)


End file.
